“You are thinking of leaving soon, I hear,” said the Squire, as we halted in a group when parting, on this same walk from church.
“In about a week,” replied Mr. Reste. “I may go on Saturday next; certainly not later than the following Monday.”
“Shall you like a drive to Evesham between this and then?” went on the Squire. “I am going over there one of these days.”
“I shall like it very much indeed.”
“Then I will let you know which day I go. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” answered Mr. Reste, lifting his hat in salute to us all, as he walked on with Katrine.
Am I lingering over these various trifling details? I suppose it will seem so. But the truth is, a dreadful part of the story is coming on (as poor Katrine said of the poaching) and my pen holds back from it.
A day or two had gone on. It was Tuesday morning, warm and bright with sunshine. Katrine sat in the parlour at Caramel Cottage, pouring out the coffee at the breakfast-table.
“Will you take some ham, Katrine?”